Dirty Halo

by Julie Johnson

  My inhale is razor-edged, slicing its way down my throat.

  “It would be such a shame if anything were to happen to them.”

  A hate unlike anything I’ve ever known before boils through my veins. Before I know it, I’m in motion — advancing on her with tears in my eyes and malice in my heart.

  “GET OUT!” I scream at top volume, wanting to claw her eyes out. “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

  “Goodnight,” she calls serenely, her heels clicking down the hallway like gunshots. “Sweet dreams.”

  I wait until she’s out of sight. Then, with a bellow of rage, I turn and punch my door with every bit of force I possess, unleashing all my anger into the strike — and damn near breaking my hand in the process.

  “FUCK!” I wail, crumpling to the floor, clutching my bruised fingers to my chest. I lean against the doorway to my room, tears streaking down my face, breathless with pain and frustration. I’m still reeling from Octavia’s threats when I hear the door directly across the hall swing open.

  Carter is standing there, dark hair mussed from sleep, looking down at me with concern written all over his face. He must’ve heard me screaming and come out to investigate. I suck in a breath that has nothing to do with my aching knuckle bones when I see he’s barefoot and shirtless, a pair of gray sweatpants riding low on his defined hipbones. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his ab muscles — a perfectly chiseled eight-pack, with a trail of hair leading from his belly button down, down, down….

  Sweet Christ.

  He starts toward me, making it two steps into the hallway before he catches himself. His expression contorts, flickering through emotions so fast I can’t keep track — pity, concern, desire, anger, worry, disgust — before settling into an unreadable mask. Taking a step backward, his spine hits the arch of his doorway and, for a moment, I think he’s going to disappear back into his bedroom without a word. I’m stunned when, instead, he slides down to the floor so he’s sitting across from me, long legs sprawled out in front of him on the hard hallway floor.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  Neither do I.

  We just sit there — me, clutching my stupid, damaged hand; him, gazing at me like he can’t quite decide whether he wants to crush me to his chest or slam his door in my face. With my good hand, I wipe the tears from my cheeks. There’s little point: the instant I try to flex the damaged one, my eyes spill over again.

  Damn, that hurts.

  Carter clears his throat. “You should really put some ice on that.”

  I glance up and find him carefully studying the angles of my face in the dim hallway light. “I’m fine.”

  He shrugs indifferently.

  “It was stupid,” I mutter after a moment. “I know better than to take my anger out on inanimate objects.”

  “Yeah, well, Octavia has that effect on people.” Taking a deep breath that makes his chest muscles contract, he runs a hand through his hair. “As a teenager, I punched so many holes in the walls back in Hightower, they stated calling my chambers the Gypsum Suite.” He pauses. “Because the maintenance staff were—”

  “Always patching the plaster on your walls,” I murmur, a smile tugging up one corner of my mouth. “Clever.”

  His eyes narrow on my face. “What was the fight about?”

  I stare at his bare feet. For some reason, the sight of them is even more mesmerizing than his abs. The Adonis-like Lord Carter Thorne, stripped of his perfectly tailored dress pants and shiny Oxford shoes. A mere mortal, after all.

  “Emilia?”

  My eyes snap back to his face. I fight the blush staining my cheeks. “Oh, just a regular chat between a girl and her new stepmother, full of thinly-veiled threats, political maneuvering, and outright duplicity. You know, the usual.”

  He snorts lightly. “Sounds about right.”

  We fall silent again, just watching each other. It’s so quiet in the hallway, I can hear each rhythmic intake of his breath. I stretch my legs out, trying to find a more comfortable position.

  “Owen,” I say finally.

  He goes utterly still.

  “She threatened Owen.” I swallow hard. “I know you won’t be terribly upset to hear it, since you two didn’t exactly… get off on the right foot, the other day.”

  He grunts in agreement.

  “But he’s my best friend. And now…” I blink back tears. “She’s got some pictures of him from an anti-monarchy protest on campus last fall. She basically implied that… well, that she can make it look a whole lot worse. Like he’s a member of a radical fringe group, targeting the crown.”

  “Can’t say I’d be all that surprised if he really was, given the way he talked about me and Chloe.”

  “It’s not true, though!” I cry, anger washing over me anew. “It’s just…”

  “Octavia attempting to control you.”

  “Yes. Which I don’t understand at all. Even if I ever accept my role — which still remains a big if — she’ll be the queen. She outranks me.”

  “For now.”

  I lift my brows.

  He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re royal by blood. She’s royal by marriage. When she becomes queen, it’ll be a symbolic title more than anything. A Queen Consort is not the same as a Queen Regnant.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Trust me, so is she. She knows the second Linus dies, she’ll be out on her ass, to put it bluntly.” His blue eyes are intent. “And Linus is not young. Which will just leave…”

  “Me,” I murmur softly.

  “You,” he echoes.

  As our eyes hold, the air between us starts to feel charged again, that inescapable electrical current running back and forth from him to me. He’s a dozen feet away, but I swear I can practically feel his warm touch on my skin.

  “We should probably get to bed,” I whisper.

  Maybe it’s my imagination, but I’d swear his eyes flare with heat as he watches my mouth form those words. He quickly smothers the look under a mask of cool indifference. Rising to his feet, he stands in the threshold with his back to me, pausing for the briefest of moments.

  “Put some ice on that damn hand.”

  He’s gone a second later, slamming his door with finality. I hear the lock turn over and let a long-held breath rattle from my lungs.

  “Goodnight,” I whisper to the empty hallway.

  The long walk downstairs to the kitchen does absolutely nothing to calm my thundering pulse. And later, when I climb into bed, swollen hand cradled against my chest… I dream of bright blue eyes that somehow always look straight through me, down to the dirty, shattered soul beneath.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s 11:55 a.m. and I’m pacing outside the closed parlor doors. I refuse to step into that room until it’s absolutely unavoidable.

  “She bamboozled you into this too, huh?”

  I look up at the sound of Chloe’s voice and see her leaning against the wall, watching me ping-pong back and forth. Judging by the warm look on her face, she’s not holding a grudge about the Owen incident.

  I smile back at her. “Bamboozled is too nice a word for what she did.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?”

  She laughs — a light, clear sound, like the water in a winter stream. “Neither. But it’s the truth. After a while, you’ll develop a sort of sixth sense for Octavia’s schemes. And once you can anticipate your opponent’s moves… it’s much easier to evade them.”

  I shake my head tiredly. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this life.”

  “No one’s ever ready for anything. You just suck it up and do it and hope that eventually the pieces fall into place. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying.”

  “That’s your best advice? Suck it up?”

  “Hmm…” She thinks about it for a moment. “Yep.”

  “Chloe, have you considered a career writing greeting cards? Since you
’re such a fountain overflowing with heartwarming wisdom?”

  “You never know, it could be my true calling. Watch out, Hallmark, I’m coming for you!” Her head tilts. “And, as a side perk, can you imagine the look on Octavia’s face if I told her I was getting a job? An actual job?”

  I gasp. “Like a common peasant?”

  “A working schlub!” She throws a hand over her heart. “The outrage!”

  “The scandal!’

  “The horror of it all!”

  “Oh, the humanity!”

  We both dissolve into giggles.

  “Word of advice? When we’re in there, try not to let Octavia rattle you,” she says when we’ve caught our breath. “The more you let your anger show, the happier she’ll be. She’s like some mythological hell-beast that feeds on misery.”

  “It would be easier to ignore her if she wasn’t threatening people I care about.” The clock on the wall begins to chime. I glare at it, as if that might somehow stop time. “Guess that’s our cue.”

  “Don’t worry,” Chloe whispers conspiratorially, stepping up to my side. “I have something that’ll make this experience a lot more enjoyable.”

  “Cyanide?” I ask, only half-joking.

  “Better.” She pulls out a small plastic baggie, glances around for Simms or one of the ever-watchful housekeepers, and dumps its contents into her palm. “Take one. Thank me later.”

  I blink down at the two innocuous-looking gummy bears. “What are they?”

  “Just a little something to take the edge off. I call them Octavia-Tamers. Makes her at least somewhat bearable to be around — especially while doing something this odious.”

  “Will it really be that bad? Picking out a dress can’t possibly take that long, can it? I figured twenty or thirty minutes, as a generous estimate.”

  Chloe snorts. “Oh, you’re so new. It might be cute if it weren’t so tragic.”

  “Forty-five minutes?” I grimace when she shakes her head. “An hour?”

  “Try two hours of dress selection, followed by another two hours of custom tailoring. Which, if you aren’t familiar, generally involves standing in one spot in front of an unflattering mirror while a sadistic seamstress sticks needles into your bodice.” Her hand extends again, fingers waggling. “Trust me. You do not want to do this sober.”

  “I don’t know…”

  Rolling her eyes, she grabs my palm, presses one bear into it, then promptly tosses the other back into her mouth. “See you on the other side, comrade.”

  Before I can stop her, she strides for the parlor doors. Frozen with indecision, my eyes flicker back and forth between her hand reaching for the knob and my own, still holding the tiny gummy bear. His tiny face is set in a happy smile. The clock chimes its final toll.

  “Sorry, little guy,” I murmur. “It’s your life or mine.”

  Two seconds before the door opens, I pop him into my mouth.

  I’m not generally what you’d call a druggie.

  The first time I ever got high, I was fifteen. Owen and I made a makeshift pipe out of an apple core, and we smoked a clump of stale weed he bought from an upperclassman while sitting in the childhood treehouse in his backyard. Probably not our best idea, seeing as I got so dizzy descending the ladder, I fell twelve feet, fractured my arm in two places, and spent the rest of that summer wearing a cast.

  Coincidentally, that was also the last time I ever got high.

  I don’t remember much about the experience — mostly just feeling itchy in my own skin, full of restless ideas but devoid of the energy required to put them into practice.

  Like I said: I’m not what you’d call a druggie.

  But whatever special ingredient Chloe’s bears contain is a whole different caliber. I don’t feel high at all. In fact, I feel so mellow, I could sink down into the floor and disappear.

  Calm. Unflappable. Chill.

  The four hours of dress selection and tailoring pass in a hazy blur of zippers and hats and hemlines and lace-covered buttons. Normally, I’d be self-conscious about standing nearly naked in front of a mirror while three strange women measure every square inch of my body… but with the help of Mr. Bear, I feel fully confident in my size-six booty and plentiful C-cups — even standing next to Chloe, whose willowy stature could make a super-model insecure enough to skip lunch.

  As the afternoon wanes on, Octavia grows increasingly annoyed when her snide comments about my “full figure” fail to inspire a response. She switches tactics, harping on the “atrocious orchid color” of my hair in an attempt to provoke me. The expression on her face as I blithely agree to dye it a more discreet brown before the funeral is truly priceless.

  Mr. Bear, today you are my hero.

  Followed closely by Chloe.

  It’s nearly four by the time we’re finally released for the day. The effects of the CBD-infused cub are just starting to wear off. Chloe links her arm with mine as we race out of the parlor, a knowing grin splitting her face.

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “Oh captain, my captain! I’ll never doubt you again.”

  “You’re welcome.” She laughs. “Now, can we please go find something to eat? I’m starving.”

  “I think I have an idea…”

  Ten minutes later, we’re in the Lockwood home theater, lying on twin leather recliners, staring in awe at the fifteen-foot television. It’s set to galaxy mode; a sea of planets and constellations drift across the screen in a slow parade of shape and color. With the lights dimmed, it’s almost like floating out in space amongst the stars.

  “Oh my god, these cookies are so good,” Chloe moans, biting into another. “Where did you say you got them?”

  “Patricia. Works in the kitchen. Knows her way around a stand mixer.”

  “How is it possible that you’ve been in this family for, like, five minutes and the staff already treat you better than me? Twenty years living as the Duke of Hightower’s stepdaughter, not once have I gotten homemade cookies hand-delivered to my suite.”

  “As if you eat cookies on a regular basis?” I snort at the thought. As far as I can tell, Chloe’s diet consists of equal parts pills and booze, with the occasional salad thrown in for sheer sustenance.

  She grins. “Touché.”

  “Hey, can I ask you something sort of random?”

  “Random just so happens to be my favorite kind of question.”

  “Do you remember your life before Octavia married Linus?”

  “Not really. I was only, like, four.” She sighs, thinking back. “Carter remembers more than me — probably to his detriment. He was around eight when they got married.”

  “Why to his detriment?”

  “Let’s just say there’s a reason Carter doesn’t believe in marriage or long-term commitment. Growing up in a house with two parents who hate each other doesn’t exactly inspire faith in monogamy as a lifestyle choice.”

  “What was your dad like? Your biological dad.”

  “Honestly? From what I’ve pieced together, he was kind of a prick. Gambled away most of his trust fund, was stripped of his familial title, and eventually wrapped his car around a tree driving home drunk from the casino one night — leaving Octavia alone with two young kids to raise on her own and zero prospects to support herself.”

  “And yet, somehow, she landed a prince.”

  “I’ll say one thing for my mother: she doesn’t take no for an answer. Ever. Before she married into the Thorne family, she was nobody. The illegitimate daughter of a stripper who seduced a married lord, thinking she’d get her hands on his fortune. Instead, she got Octavia — who, let’s be honest, had to be more of a punishment than a blessing, even as a baby.”

  “Octavia was illegitimate? No fucking way.”

  “It’s true. Why do you think she loathes you so much?” Chloe’s brows lift. “In you, she sees herself.”

  “Um, ouch. Please don’t insult me like that.”

  “No, no, I’m not comparing
your personalities. I just mean… you represent everything she’s aspired to leave behind. She looks at you and she sees a life she’d rather forget. All the struggle she went through, turning herself from a low-born bastard to a lord’s wife to a widow to a duchess… and now, to arguably the most powerful woman in the country. The soon-to-be queen consort.”

  “Wow.”

  My mind reels. It’s strange to think of Octavia and I having anything in common. Stranger still to think of her at my age — young, vulnerable, desperate. I’d always rather assumed she popped out of the womb wearing that cold, calculating smile of hers.

  “Was Linus a good stepfather?” I ask. I’m not even sure where the question comes from but suddenly… there it is, hanging in the air.

  Chloe’s voice grows thoughtful. “He was, actually — if a bit absent. When we were little he traveled a lot, especially after his brother was crowned. King Leopold relied on him greatly as an advisor. I remember long stretches of time without him at Hightower. But when he came back, he’d always have gifts and stories from his trips abroad.” The wistful thread in her voice fades. “Of course, Carter and I spent most of our teenage years at different boarding schools in Switzerland, so we didn’t see much of Germania except at Christmas and for a few weeks every summer.”

  “That sounds…”

  “Glamorous?”

  “I was going to say lonely.”

  She dunks one end of her cookie into a glass of milk. “Welcome to life as a Lancaster. I think lonely is on the royal crest.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure it’s a double-headed lion…”

  “Shut up.”

  I grin into the dark. We’re quiet for a moment, just watching the stars spin by.

  “You know,” I murmur. “As crappy as this week has been… I’m happy one good thing came out of it.”

  “You’re talking about the giant-ass tiara they’re going to give you at your coronation, right? You could fund a third world country for an entire year, just using the bottom row of diamonds on that thing. Talk about bling, baby.”

  I shoot her a look. “Actually, I was talking about you. I’ve never really had many female friends. It’s a nice change of pace.”